


Put your trust in songs

by Beth Winter (BethWinter)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Background Character Death, Background Relationships, F/M, Gen, Post Series, Sansa Stark Demon Queen of the North
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 14:49:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1822348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BethWinter/pseuds/Beth%20Winter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jorah Mormont meets Sansa Stark twice. Once in the beginning of summer, once at the end of winter. Once in light, and once in darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put your trust in songs

**I. AC 292, Winterfell**

In the summer, Winterfell bloomed with flowers.

There were flowers of all colours now, though no trace remained of the blue roses Jorah recalled from the year of the false spring. They were winter roses, he remembered Ben saying, and something about the blooms lasting fresh for months even when cut. The youngest Stark had played host then, gathering his brother's bannermen, and the role had sat ill on him. The boy had been happiest showing him and some of the Umbers around the forest, under the guise of inspecting Winterfell's defenses.

As he walked through the edges of the wolfwood, Jorah wished he had Benjen's eye for plants. He knew which would kill or sicken men and horses, and which were edible, but he had no idea which would wither within the hour and which last long enough to bring a moment's joy to his wife's face.

She would prefer a lasting shine, he knew. Still, hadn't his first gift been her flower crown of Love and Beauty?

The rustling of the grass had him turning before his thoughts caught up with his body. There was no sword at his hip, no danger of wildlings so close to Winterfell, and the moment he started to believe in things like that, he'd crown himself with a fool's cap.

Still, it was only a child. A girl of an age with his cousin Jorelle, except Jorelle would never let herself be caught in a dress this long, and anyone taming his little cousin's hair into braids had to expect their work undone within the hour by all the tumbles and climbs a girl of six could invent. This girl's fiery hair was woven in a southron style, a perfect copy of the way her mother had held herself at the morning meal, except for the flowers dotting it. Ned's eldest, he remembered. Sansa, the one everyone had expected to be named Lyanna, peeking at him around a tree trunk.

"You're a way from home, lady Sansa," he called out.

She put a finger to her lips. "I'm hiding from the wizard."

"And who is that wizard?" Jorah crouched down, putting his hands on the ground.

"Maester Luwin," she admitted, then frowned. "You shouldn't see me. I've called the good spirits of the trees to hide me, like Jenny of Oldstones."

"She was only hidden from those who wished her ill." He watched as the child edged closer. "I don't recall any spells or spirits who could hide a highborn maiden from a good knight."

He seemed to judge her well, for she smiled and came closer.

"There aren't knights in the North," she told him. "Not many. Ser Rodrick's a knight, but he's old."

"I'm not young either," Jorah said. "But I admit to being younger than him."

She giggled suddenly, crossing the last few paces at a run to cling to his knee. "I know who you are! You won the Lady Lynesse's hand in a tourney! And she's from so very far south, and you're from the Bear Island, and she still married you, and there are songs!"

There was one, to Jorah's grudging acquiescence, though it had been years since he could listen to it sung. He wondered how much praise it was for the singer, to capture the imagination of a child of six.

"Yes, Lynesse is my lady and wife," he said. "Indeed, I'm on a quest for her right now, and if you're a friend of the spirits of the trees, I would ask your help."

The brightness of her smile rivalled the effects of his best bear impression on Jorelle. Perhaps the two girls were not so different after all; Jorelle too loved to prove useful, whether it was stacking wood or cleaning hares.

"I will be... de-light-ed to be of service, ser Jorah!" she chimed, pronouncing the longest word carefully. "What is your quest? Are we going to find a dragon?"

He raised himself to full height. "No dragons, lady Sansa. I would ask your help to weave a crown for my Queen of Love and Beauty."

The girl slipped her hand through his as she chattered about the suitable qualities of various flowers around them. Jorah thought she was used to walking like this with her father. For a moment, he let himself wonder whether one day, he'd walk like this with a daughter of his own, this kind of precious recreation of her mother down to the trim of her dress and light of her eyes.

Perhaps that would make Lynesse as accustomed to the North as Catelyn Tully was now. Perhaps that was what they needed: a summer child with golden hair.

* * *

**II. AC 304, King's Landing**

In the winter, the Dragonpit bloomed with flames.

Drogon was restless, Jorah thought. The largest of the dragons took ill to being penned, and at night he oft vented his flame through the hole at the top of the pit's new dome. That at least was fortunate, for otherwise the flame might weaken the mortar and give Drogon the freedom of King's Landing, where sheep were rare, but unguarded children plentiful.

Jorah walked down the walkway, another of Daenerys's new construction projects. He did not object to the Imp's designs and the alchemists' work, since walking above King's Landing was preferable to wading through it, but despite their roofs the labyrinth of walkways always felt exposed. Should a siege ever happen, stray catapult shots would cut through them like a bird through a spider's net.

There were too many ways to access them, as well. He understood that the intent was to provide public thoroughfares and ease the transport of men goods between the three hills of the city, but each time he escorted Daenerys along them, he feared ambush from every stairwell.

Still, the view was unrivalled. He leaned against the railing once the Dragonpit was in full view, close enough that by the dimming of the windows he could trace the path of Drogon's and Viserion's flight. Drogon would tire of this play soon and sleep, he knew, and Daenerys would want word, each night, that her fire-breathing children were hale and well.

"They're dancing," a woman said.

His hand was on his sword before he was conscious of it, the blade always at his side. She stood in the opening of a stairwell, looking at the fire-lit dome. Her hood hid her face, but in the flare of Drogon's fire the hair falling to her breast flashed red.

She brought her hand to her mouth as she turned to him. "My apologies if I startled you, ser. I merely wished to look upon the dragons."

He sheathed the sword, but left his hand on the hilt. "Most of King's Landing saw them closer than they wished, not half a year past."

"I am newly arrived in the city. I heard that the new walkways are open to all."

"Just as on the streets, a woman would be safer in company."

"Nowhere as safe as with one of the Queensguard, surely."

He nodded stiffly. That explained her lack of fear, for his white cloak showed well in the dark.

She stepped closer and to the side, forcing him to turn until his face was in the light of both the moon and intermittent dragonfire. The sound she made was half a laugh, and for some reason the sound brought to his mind the thought of summer.

"Ser Jorah," she said. "This is a surprise. I;m glad that our paths have brought us here, for all our woes."

She slipped the hood off her head, and he stepped back. Dead, he had heard, dead and betrayed and defiled.

"Lady Catelyn?"

She shivered, the smile replaced by an icy mask. "You misname me."

"Sansa," he said as the hair and the eyes and the age fell together with the memory of summer's flowers. "Lady Sansa Stark. I did not know you were in the city."

That song had played out before Daenerys's arrival, and both sisters of the Lord of Winterfell had paid for their freedom in blood. Fire too, he recalled, for Sansa at least. The old Master of Coin had gone mad and tried to burn the castle at the foot of the Eyrie, perishing in the flames together with three of his knights and some bastard girl. Sansa had been his captive, some piece he tried to play in the game of thrones, but her brother's survival ruined those plans and drove him into fire.

"I am but passing through," she said. "I am no-one of note now, and I had not thought to disturb the peace of the Red Keep with my presence."

"The Queen would be happy to host you."

She flinched, blue eyes falling shut. "I - forgive me. You say the Queen and I see Cersei Lannister."

They had had that story, too, from Jalabhar Xho who had seen more than anyone thought him capable of watching. "I must beg your forgiveness. Though I assure you, her grace is very kind."

"People have been kind to me before," she whispered. "I have long since stopped believing the world works as does in songs."

"It would be a strange song," Jorah agreed. He was pleased to see some of the tension leave her face. "Only Daenerys could dream of what she has now built. Men were not meant to climb so high."

Sansa smiled, turning back to look at the dome and the city. "I would say she dreamt of flying."

"She flies," he said. "She sits her dragon much lighter than anyone has ever sat the Iron Throne."

"And people love her for it," she mused. "A just young queen, and ruthless as she should be. And possessed of dragons. Doesn't it sound like a song?"

"Dragonsong, perhaps."

She smiled, looking less like her mother and more like her six-year-old self. He wondered if Jorelle was as tall as her now. Aly wasn't, when she had come to bow to Daenerys, but Jorelle always took after Dacey. The image of Bear Island behind his eyes was suddenly clear and sharp, the wind carrying the scent of snow and pine.

"Do they sing?" Sansa asked. "I have never seen a dragon."

He offered her his arm. "Walk with me, and you shall hear."

The wood and iron of the walkway shifted a little in the wind as they walked, a song of its own. He thought he heard something else, movement behind and below them, but then thought it must have been a stray dog. The animals of the city knew how to climb the staircases, too. In the afternoons, cats parcelled out the top level carefully, the ones from the Keep and the ones from Flea Bottom keeping precise distance from each other.

Sansa kept up a conversation with an ease that was half courtly and half the natural directness of the north, as familiar to him as breathing. She knew some of his new Queensguard companions and asked to be remembered to Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Ashes. She even laughed as he described the Kingslayer's pardon, and the way he had chased the Maid of Tarth across the entire keep before she let herself be thanked for interceding with the Queen.

"I've been there," she told him. "Tarth. They are very happy."

"The winds are turning," he said. "Spring will be upon us, and we all hope for peace."

"It's peaceful in Dorne. It's peaceful in the Stormlands, and the Reach, and the west."

"We had ravens from the Wall. The war is going well."

"You had ravens," she repeated. Her hand rested in the crook of his arm, fingers shifting as if weaving invisible braids.

He found himself reviewing those messages in his mind. The twice-dead boy used Rhaegal well, the dragon's viciousness unleashed on their winter foes, but even a dragon could not cover the entire length of the wall at once. The North was not as ravaged as the Riverlands, but depleted of its fighting men, and there was only so much the wildlings could do to fill the gap. He recalled how many houses were headed by women and children now, and not all of them were as strong as Maege and her girls.

The guards at the upper doors of the Dragonpit let them pass. The heat swept over them the moment they stepped inside, stronger than the highest swelter of northern summer. Drogon slumbered now, his back turned on this upper gallery, but Viserion nosed curiously among the chains and devices that littered the floor, throwing them a curious look with eyes that shone pure gold.

"They're not chained down," Sansa said curiously.

"The dome is strong," he assured her. "Daenerys says they're happier without chains, with room to stretch their wings and toys to occupy them. When they're fed, meat is placed within the puzzle globes, and it gives them exercise to retrieve it."

"Like dogs," she murmured. She leaned over the railing of the gallery, looking at Viserion. The dragonglass lamps made her hair look like blood for a moment, running over her shoulders and towards the dragon.

Jorah shook his head to clear it. It was late. It was late, and she was Ned's daughter, the little child who thought it the best thing in the world to meet a tourney champion. She was a girl who loved songs.

"More like cats," he told her. "Many died trying to tame them, but I think they choose their own masters. They seem to have a preference for those with Targaryen blood, but your cousin was the only successful rider when he climbed Rhaegal."

"Jon," she said. "He carries your family's sword and rides Daenerys's dragon. A knight from the songs, a champion of light and fire. Do you know what I came to hate about songs?"

"Lady Sansa?"

She turned to him, hair flaring out. Viserion screeched, the sharp scream echoed with dull thuds. A rock sliding off the dome, maybe, a remnant of the construction, and the sound faded from his mind as she reached for his face.

Her hands were very cold, and very white.

"In songs, the lady always waits," she said. "She never holds a sword and she waits for the dragon to come to her."

He tried to find words, but there was only the blue of her eyes. Brighter than her mother's, he thought.

"Tell me more. Tell me about the dragons."

Then the dome shook under Drogon's roar. The dragon uncurled and sprung up, hurtling over Viserion's head, flame aimed above them and yet close enough to singe.

Sansa gave a cry, huddling to him, just a terrified young woman. She was warm when Jorah put his arm around her, and she hid her face in his chest when he turned around and saw Daenerys.

"Leave him alone," his khaleesi said. "Do you think you are the first to try to steal my dragons?"

"I know I'm not." Sansa lifted her head, but the voice came from behind Daenerys. A man's voice, low and rasping. "I know that your back is unprotected."

Jorah pushed Sansa away, reaching for his own sword, trying to see in the darkness of the doors behind his queen. The guards - but there had been those dull sounds, when Sansa distracted both him and the dragons. The girl stumbled, her grey cloak flaring like wings.

"Speak to me with your own voice," Daenerys demanded. Her white gown threw her burnished skin into life, as bronze and silver as Viserion. "I've had my fill of magic."

"Very-"

"-well," Sansa finished with her own lips. "I have not hurt you or yours." She stepped back, until Jorah's blade was pressed against her spine. "Now we are matched, your Grace."

Daenerys's brow furrowed. "Your man's blade is not unsheathed."

"Your bear is not the strongest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms."

Below them, Drogon let off his flame. The flare shot up towards the apex of the dome, turning Sansa's hair to fire and Danerys's to ice. Beyond his queen, Jorah could only see a large shadow.

Sansa dipped into a curtsy, as if they were in the throne room and not the Dragonpit.

"What did you talk about?" Daenerys asked.

Jorah cast his mind over befuddled memories. "Songs, my queen. We talked of songs."

"Dragonsong?"

"Songs of knights and monsters," Sansa said. "Lords and wizards. Wise queens and ghosts that pass in the night."

Behind Jorah, dragon claws scraped on the rock. Viserion climbed more nimbly than his brothers.

Sansa turned with a smile, one hand raised to turn aside Jorah's blade. "Songs of the dance of dragons."

**Author's Note:**

> So this was supposed to be short and fluffy, just two encounters and some discussion of whether songs are true, but when future Sansa showed up, everything went sideways. I don't preclude writing more of her, because she arrived complete with a lot of backstory. (And yes, that's the Hound looming in the shadows and sharing both his eyes and his voice with her.)


End file.
